Plan B
by KetchRey
Summary: After the aftermath of Tex vs the Reds, the Blues go through a floundering period. Tucker takes up the reins and regrets every minute of it. Almost.
1. Chapter 1

This is the day after, Tucker. And the day after what startles you out of comfortable lethargy is the sound of dishes breaking.

A brief and pointless glance across the room displays the vacant bunk and no Caboose and you're just about shitting the sheets already flung from your waist. Snatch your briefs halfway down the cot, getting one foot then the other through, curses sputtering out your lips as you stagger out the doorway.

Caboose already has his head up when you're scrambling into the kitchenette. The base had been well stocked while Captain Flowers was around, most the inventory being freezer burnt meals and canned products that maybe shouldn't have been canned but you're not complaining. The variety of goods with unpronounceable ingredients has been one of those few highlights to your time here, and at the present moment there are several days worth of perfectly good batter packets sifted out over the floor around shards of broken bowl.

..."I saved the eggs." Caboose says quietly.

The exhale comes hard and fast, and you add a couple more to follow it because this is your goddamn life. "Caboose. Why?"

When his eyes immediately grow wide a better part of you has to resist an urge to march back to your room and take back what's left of the morning. A _painfully_ cut short morning.

"It's a present!"

..."What's a present?"

"Waffles!"

"Waffles."

Caboose bounces from one leg to the other, precariously close to the glass shards nearing his feet. "My sister would make me waffles with chocolates and chips at home. I would be watching sad movies, and so then I was sad, and she made me waffles, and they were always made chocolate-"

"Right, right, I got that." Reach to cover a yawn. "Why are you making waffles?"

His next face comes across bare and befuddled. He looks you up and down, clinging the compressed tin of yolks over his chest. ..."Because waffles are for when we're sad. Church needs his waffles."

...Right.

So apparently there's a system around here. System goes: Caboose wakes up at the dick-crack of dawn, and Church gets up with him. This is less of a voluntary process and more so a wake up call of squealing smoke detectors and emergency alarms that Church clearly can't get himself to sleep through. Because you go out like a fucking light Tucker, the system flexes. You're pretty used to getting off easy.

This morning though, where it's you getting up when the dishes clatter, when it's you that smells the something that's burning...

'Shit,'

Scanning through damp boxes and the batter that's dripping down cupboards to the floor, your eyes narrow in on the hot palate. Dark slabs mar and smoke up from the grill plate, so dry they're actually crackling against the heat. You clear the floor in twice as many strides as usual to avoid the mess, reaching over counter space to jerk the plug from the wall. Your bare feet squelch in a puddle of batter.

"I will clean it up. Every bit of it!" Caboose exclaims with all the zealous and volume of a prideful five-year-old. "Church will not have to do a thing, I promise." His voice gradually transcends down to a whisper and if this is a form of punishment you really feel it to be unjust. "This is a super secret surprise. He will never, even, know."

You're pretty sure Church will know soon as he walks into the kitchen and tries his shot at breathing. Already a blend of charcoal and candy frost has begun working its way up your nose, laying out a trail to your brain. Church isn't up though and that's kinda weird. Not like 'out there' weird or anything, but still. Weird enough.

"Sure, dude whatever. ...Did you, need some help, with the stove part?"

"Nope!" He bounds, letting his tin down beside another plate on the counter. A plate stacked with dark brown slabs speckled with a handful of bulk cocoa pellets from one of their many brandless cereals. The face of this unsalvageable mountain has been messily glazed with a toaster strudel icing pack, hence the smell of plastic-vanilla plastering the inside of your lungs.

..."Looks great, Caboose." You say after a beat, mentally plotting how to rectify this. "Why don't you go take those over to Church? He should be getting up and ready by now."

When Caboose grins it's as though every light in the base has been dialled to burn out your retinas. He's got this kid-like bound in him, something that locks in way too right with the baby face and that fucking explosion of curls. What you've suggested seems to have re-inspire the thrill of motivation behind his intent. There's a very slim window given for you to press back into the cupboards as a delighted hulk of man-child charges past.

"Jesus, _walking_ , Caboose!"

The human hazard lopes out of the kitchen and you peel away from the cupboards, shifting view for the assessment. Broken dishes, a floor to be mopped, hot plate that's going to need a good soaking. As far as Caboose inflicted casualties go, this one isn't so bad. But there is that dish on the floor, and some of the batter and icing has begun pooling into crevices.

"Good fucking morning Blue base..."

There's a damp towel in the sink that you pluck up to start wiping. The wet dough and icing paste clings on, picking up a good layer of crumbs and dried food bits with it.

Between Church ripping into meals straight out of their boxes and Caboose banned from any and all forms of equipment with a function, one would expect there to be very little worth wiping. You might be the only one here who thinks to clean between meals, and you're definitely the only one who has ever really used this kitchen for cooking. That had been a huge error on your part.

At one point there had been a bag of fruit in the freezer. That fruit, half a can of eggs, brisket mix and a treasured ziplock of processed mozzarella had gone into four hours of thankless labor over a toaster oven. Visually, the peach cream cheese cake turned out alright, and that's all you have to say for it. Church ate more than half of it in one sitting and threw out the rest, _then_ went on a bitching tangent about how it- "didn't even taste like peach- the fucking cantaloup contaminates every piece of fucking fruit! Motherfucking package melons."

Doesn't pay to be too good at anything around here.

Just as you've gotten down on your knees and have started on the bits of plastic china, a pair of boots drag in from the doorframe behind. You glance back and there's Caboose standing in the doorway, a good deal more crestfallen than you recall him being three minutes earlier.

"When does Church get better?"

You look at Caboose, flicking over those dopey to the way he's slouching. There's not a single trace of understanding in there, like he's got absolutely no fucking clue how the human mind work. Alright correction, how the excessively jacked up, 'I hate the goddamn universe', mind works.

For some out of this world reason, Church is Caboose's fucking hero. His ridiculous ass of an idol that shoots the blue end of rainbows out his ass. Right now Caboose doesn't get why he's acting so non-ass-ish.

..."Dude, nothing's wrong with him. He was made that way, nothing we can do."

"I think he's sleeping."

Mid reach with half a plate you stop, watching the floor.

"I asked if he wanted some special happy waffles and he didn't answer."

"Caboose, you made pancakes."

"Oh. Where are they?"

"He didn't shout or anything? Tell you to get the fuck out?"

"The blankets were over his head. He was also really quiet... Maybe we were playing hide and seek and Church is supposed to be hiding. That makes sense, I forget we're playing sometimes."

Because it's Caboose and the floor is actually pretty gross, you tilt off your knees into a supported crouch. "He's not talking?"

"Church is _hiding_ , for the game. You can't play, because of rules. If Church is hiding, I'm seeking and the waffles can be for later. We can make new ones together!"

..."You are so much fucking louder today than you were yesterday."

"One! ... Two, three! ..."

* * *

Down the hall to the conjoined barracks you begin to recollect how this day started. Church's bunk is next to yours and yet he wasn't the one flying out of his sheets when Caboose was on his mad rampage through the kitchen. Thinking about it now, that was something that really shouldn't have slipped your mind.

The cot furthest from the door resembles an odd fort of limbs and bed sheets over a mattress. You move a little into the room, checking out the tented mound with swallowed amusement. This is something new.

Through the medley of Church's moods you are just starting to piece together each's precipice. That it's the tone he wakes up with that holds all the cues needed to predict which side of Church will be gracing you with his presence. He's got a shitty blend for sure, but you'd think time would make it easier to swallow. 'Bow chicka-'

Well shit. Caboose wasn't exaggerating.

For a good minute or so you hover at the foot of his cot, and when the mound doesn't move you put a foot to the mattress and shove. Half an inch of the bed sheet slips down, the dark head of a hijacked helmet poking into view.

"You dead, asshole? Oh wait, that's not right. You still dead?"

The bump of armor beneath sheets stirs, rolling away to the left and tugging the thin blankets tight around himself.

"Last call for breakfast. Wouldn't try to eat those pancakes, man."

"Callate..."

"Huh?"

An arm reaches out above the covers, fiercely jerking them back over his head and tucking under the pillow.

"Just saying, we've got some pretty okay food lying around, provided Caboose doesn't get into any more of it. You should try to eat something." Does a ghost inside a robot need to eat? Whatever, still counts as an attempt- the only one you're obligated to make.

"Ir. Lejos." You make out, Church's words muffled beneath the blankets engulfing him.

Way overdone.

This is such an obvious invite to a variety of counter attacks, but staring down the unmoving lump of armor does something to you. Spurts a small voice murmuring how it might not be cool to flip that mattress out from under him.

..."Kay, whatever then. Guess it's not gonna kill anyone if you take the day. No problem. I'll uh, be going. Gotta go put Caboose out to pasture. We'll just, let you know if somebody's dead."

"...No se moleste."

"Right, okay man. Totally." You rock for a moment on your feet, looking up to the ceiling. The door is right there, so fucking close... -"Do you know you're speaking Spanish?"

"Lárgate fuera."


	2. Chapter 2

"He just lies around."

"Yup."

"By himself?"

"Uh huh."

..."Annnd, you're not thinking to get him up?"

You look over, because this conversation is on the very tilt of annoying. The red rookie sits crossed legged in the dirt a couple metres vertical to you, back to the bumper of a Jeep. Another one of them is sprawled out over the front seats. With his helmet balanced in a small tuff of grass rookie's bare face, still red and thin-fleshed over that one eye, scrunches up. His rosy shoulder pads go up and down.

"I'm not doing shit. This is Church taking on a whole new fucking color. This is like... like he flipped shit and now there's never anything to eat and I never catch him raiding the freezer cause he's become fucking nocturnal... And he's _always_ in that fucking bunk. Do you know how many times I've had to rub one out in the bushes?"

"Just saying, it might be a good idea to be paying attention. Those are some of the red flag signs of clinical depression."

"Oh fuck you." You scratch at a clump of dirt. "How did this become my problem? This is your fault."

The Red looks up, fucking Bambi eyes wide and offended. "What'd _I_ do?"

"You blew up his fuck buddy."

"That was two weeks ago! I _apologized_."

"Well then don't get on my ass about how I worship Church. He's just like this, alright? Big drama. All the time. Goes with the territory, and it sucks. Dude could've been a fucking theatre major."

The Red passed out in their Jeep snuffles, shifting one of his legs slumped over the door. Rookie gives the leg swaying next to his head a glance, plucking at a dry weed. "He is not being dramatic. It _sounds_ , like he's trying to grieve."

"Okay no, Church is not grieving. If he didn't cry over his own dead body he sure as hell wouldn't give two shits about anybody else's." You pry a flint of stone loose from the dirt, rolling it between thumb and forefinger. ..."Why the hell am I talking to you about this?"

"Grif fell asleep. Anybody else would shoot?"

..."Huh. Sounds about right I guess."

"This is so _sweet_. You miss your friend!"

You straighten from this haunched position, a guffaw already up your throat. "Ahha, no. No no, let me set some things straight here. We're not friends. I don't think the word even registers in his vocabulary. This is the first quiet peak I've had since deployment and it's making the Cuban missile crisis look like a freaking surprise party for grandma. I'm patiently waiting out doomsday. Running scared."

"Daawww."

You toss the stone and it pings off of his pink helmet crest and back into the Jeep, rolling over the vinyl to settling in a seam. "I'm gonna lose my goddamn mind out here if the only alternative to avoiding the asshole and the idiot are you freaks."

"Freaks with guns, Mr Blue..." Rookie cocks his head one way, making a full body inch with his back to the jeep, rotating from the sun. He rests his head against the door and huffs. "If my two cents are worth anything to you, I think you're handling this all wrong. Back on the farm I had this chick. I picked it out from the bunch because it was taller and it kept getting pecked at."

"There had better be some fucking wisdom behind this bullshit."

"It's not _bullshit_ it's an anecdote, now listen. I picked it out, I named it, I took it for walks every morning before breakfast, and after a few months it grew into a turkey. My dad asked if he could take him for a walk one day. I never got him back."

..."So he killed your bird."

"Quick and painless, momma told me."

"Was there a lesson in there, somewhere? I can't go up to Church and correlate this to bird murder. And he already ate all our poultry cold cuts."

"You are emotionally exhausting, no wonder Grif tapped out of our three way."

"Bow chicka wow wow."

..."Did you just have a stroke?"

"Dude, if wishes were dollars I'd be getting multiple strokes."

...

..."The point I was getting at was that, from what you've told Grif about your dead, undead buddy-"

"Not buddies,"

"But hold up wait, is he dead? Or, no he's not dead, it's the other one, that's dead or..? ...Wait. I might have that messed up."

"I don't need anybody's help, I needed a place to vent. Caboose isn't exactly quality programming. Oh yeah, that's something else, the 'inactive asshole' dilemma wouldn't be half as bad if the fucking moron would stop trying so hard to 'fix Church'. He's been working on these retarded project that either involve cooking or mechanics, and he can't fucking do either. I've got the fire extinguisher on standby. Swear to god if I wake up tomorrow morning and the microwave is busted-"

"Alright, that's twenty-five."

Rookie straightens up against the warthog at the forth party's approach, and Grif starts a little in his sleep. A cherry colored leg blocks your peripheral vision on the right, standing oppressively between where you're sprawled and the least paranoid of the Reds.

"You. Go away." Red team's self-appointed second spits like he's shooing a cat, glaring down the pass of his visor. From the light of this angle, his helmet hovers like a giant cricket head in the sky. You snicker a bit, and just that has Maroon's hands clutching around his rifle.

"Calm down, Simmons. We were just talking."

"Exchange between yourself and the enemy is good enough to warrant treason in Sarge's book, and his book is the Red Army handbook, which is also our book. So there's that." Red guy, Simmons, almost does a full body swivel when there's a low rumble from the warthog. "Oh what in the hell,"

Slinging his rifle to the crook of one arm, with the other he grabs the door handle and jerks. Grif falls about halfway out of his seat before snorting awake, then tumbles the remaining feet to the dirt.

"...Ahahaowww, what the fuck?! I had it in park!"

"Really?" Simmons rebukes, Grif making intentional wounded sounds as he crawls to his knees. "This is how you plan to go out, in the middle of a nap?"

"...Uh, and who wouldn't want to go that way?"

"Uh, hey," You raise an arm meekly to Cherry-cheeks. "Wasn't planning on killing anybody in their sleep. Just talking."

"That's right, and you interrupted us." Rookie piles on, jabbing a finger into Simmons' knee joint. "This was getting to be a very intimate session. So rude, Simmons."

Simmons holds down his rebuttal, taking a deliberate step out of the other's reach. ..."I, am trying to make sure neither of you idiots are gutted like fish."

"Oh man, nobody mention fish." Grif grunts, pulling himself back inside the warthog and levelling his weight over the wheel. "Been dreaming about breaded crab cakes, smoked trout on rye... Oh this is homesickness, bitch. I might just have to kill myself."

"How intimate a conversation were you having with the guy you've now known for about a week? A guy who has _tried_ to _kill_ you twice through the duration of that week?"

"Oh wow, we're dwelling on that too now? You know Simmons, I'll bet that's where most of your problems stem from."

"What the hell is he talking about?"

"If you can never let go of the past, those demons will eat you up. Lick up all the frosting and leave behind some poor muffin who's now gonna be ashamed of itself around all the cupcakes."

"Wha... _What_?"

Rookie releases a small huff, teetering back on his ass to look at you. "Please excuse him. His father didn't love him right."

You miss the visual prelude of that, flipping your neck back to squint into the sun. One fucking twilight zone effect of this place after another. There are no goddamn clouds. There's the sun, a triple watt bulb with infinitesimal power day in and out, all day, all night. You are able to stare for eight full seconds before nodding out of the heat, reintegrating into the ever-proceeding squawk fest.

"You know what? Die alone, die asleep. Die with fish-dick down your throat." A mechanical hiss and click and Simmons has got his rifle's safety flipped. "See if I give two shits." He pivots on his heels, tearing up a clump of grass and dirt that he kind of trips on, stomping out of their triangle back to red base.

..."Dude, _no_..." Grif groans. "I snooze through one sob session, you preload another. Thanks Donut."

"Are you seriously excusing the attempt to run off a guest?!"

Grif exhales, one arm flailing limply across his face. "Nobody's doing any running. Running blows. Try to keep your voices down."

"The Blue guy is going through a difficult time. His homelife is unstable. He's gonna need us for emotional support and reassurance."

"Yeah actually, feeling pretty stable right now. Should be going. I left Caboose alone with four sandwiches and Church." Probably not one of your greatest ideas, but definitely not the worst.

"Nothing's blown up yet." Donut chirps, observing the visible angle of blue base from his patch of grass.

"That you can see." Grif mutters unhelpfully, resettling himself in the driver's seat. Resting his ankles up over the door he has propped open, his weight slides down the seat. "Really dude, hiding out over here is kind of a bitch move."

"Oh, so you've never dug holes or ducked under bunks for some quiet time?"

"I'm not complaining to the enemy team about the roadblocks of life."

"Dude, in twenty minutes time I've heard an awful lot about shrimp shacks and fried buttersticks from a guy who sleep talks his wet dreams."

..."Oh jesus, now I've gotta remember that one..." His arms sag a little over the appaulstry. "And hey, that was twenty minutes of 'me time', time that you infringed on. Nobody asked you to stick around. I'm entitled. I get to go home to the prom queen, a psychotic veteran, and one and a half Mexican robots."

"Says he's Dutch Irish." Donut murmurs, rolling the heel of his boot. ..."And Lopez hasn't really been around a whole lot,"

"Boo hoo bitch, I've got _Caboose_. I win."

"I'm just not seeing the problem, dude. Resident mother hen goes out of commission, big deal. Least yours doesn't put a gun to your nose when you want five more minutes of shut eye."

On that note you roll up from your knees. A fresh grass stain has dried over your thigh, and you reach to scratch at it. Donut sticks both arms up and you nearly do a double take before lending yours. He gives a little spring with his heels into the hoist, one that nearly carries him face first into the front of your helmet.

"'Kay, well," You let go of Donut to swipe the dirt from your gloves. "Think I've left them on their own long enough. Thanks for... you know, whatever."

Donut goes and busts out this huge ass grin that could absolutely rot teeth, his chest puffing out like the words meant more than, 'I needed to whine. You were sort of convenient.'

"Come back over anytime, Mr. Blue! Hope you're friend's feeling better soon."

"Yeah, thanks." You get about three feet before the thought registers and you're swivelling. ..."Whoa, whoa, hold up. Dude, you think Church is a mother hen figure? What kind of fucked up lady squeezed you out?"

Grif's visor slants on its side and the glare is palpable through glass. "I'm telling everyone you got an STI from that rock."

* * *

It actually crosses your mind to consider whether a tornado could have passed through in the time you were out.

The countertop is covered with shit; boxes, cellophane wrappers, fucking tupperware everywhere. The liability that is Church had passed through here and left the trash trail of a calamity. Declare it Tuesday. Or Wednesday. One of those two.

"Holy Christ,"

Walking is risky when the floor feels so sticky underfoot. Your arm nearly bumps an open bag of chips, piled atop a tower of plates. Crumbs and wet sludge that may or may not be barbecue sauce speckle the counter top as you go about picking through plates, the majority of which are actually stuck together. It takes a bit of muscle to pry one loose.

Breakfast had been some of those synthetic eggs from a can that had sat like a stone in your gut for several hours preceding. A few hours ago, those rations had been in storage. Stocked up for uglier days. If you were interested in any of that you might raise to the table that's it is currently you carrying the rest of Blue team on these irrefutably sturdy shoulders. It's you who sat through fifteen minutes of gossip before it became your turn to speak, also you who ends up taking out trash and wiping down floors and counter tops.

Those cold cuts and dijon mustard are sounding real good.

Approaching the fridge has marks strewn over its surface becoming a whole lot clearer. Finger prints, hand smears, a grease imprint that resembles that douche's horse's ass forehead. Your fingers pry at the door away from the marks and still you end up in something sticky. Like living with freakin' four year olds.

Who has time for all the colors of Church anymore? Not you Tucker. You are eating kielbasa.

The fridge pops open and you nearly stagger. ...Okay, you got past the whirlwind of trash, and reusing a plate that very likely has traces of Church's saliva, that's tolerable. You've put up with the grubbiness, the homo-silence bullshit, but this...

 _This_ , is bull _shit_.

Caboose is sitting against the wall when you round the corridor, his arm mid way down a jar of blueberry jam. It takes about half a second for the dazed concern to flee from his face, mouth rounding as he shoots up a little on the wall with a hiss.

"Tucker, wait! He's having alone time." He stage whispers. "People like being alone for alone time."

"I'm gonna bust his gut so hard. Hard enough that everything comes back up. He's going to give everything back to us in pain, that's how this is going!"

Down on the ground Caboose shrugs, the jar slipping tighter on his wrist. "You shouldn't leave him unsupervised, Tucker. They never like being alone, that is why the furniture gets torn up."

"Watching him was your job, idiot!"

"Well I _thought_ , I wasn't allowed to have pets!"

"Jesus Christ, he's not a dog, he's not a cat, he's the Jackass that stole my food and I'm going to-" You take a moment to fucking breathe. Swallow. "...Please tell me your hand's not really stuck it there."

"I can't reach the jam."

"I can't do this. There's no fucking way we all survive this. You guys are gonna eat me. We'll run outta rations because Church eats fucking everything and falls into a food induced coma. You think he's dead, cook him up to worship, tastes like chicken, bam! Moron's gonna outlast us all!"

"...This is very gooey."

Before he's given the chance to stall your rampage further, you've shouldered into the bunk room and have the door closed behind. Heat seeking your eyes scope across the room, pinning the cot in the far corner. The sheets are stripped, dragged and tangled around Church's lower half where he's sprawled on the floor. The blue bed sheets wrap his armor like a toga and you can't help it that the first thought to cross your mind is that a picture would make for amazing blackmail.

There's an entire box of mid-thawed pizza strew over his chest piece, balanced by lack of movement alone. His helmet's on but somehow he's still chewing. The visor train tilts a little in your direction. "Morning sunshine."

"You mother _fucker_."

"Good to see you too."

"Don't try that, asshole. I've had it up to here with all this moping."

"When you're a ghost it's called haunting. Dumbass."

"Yeah well, when you're a ghost you typically don't eat much. Theory two out the window." A rough snort comes up his throat, one that could've been a belch. "You're gonna get up off the floor, say hi to Caboose and clean up the goddamn kitchen."

He makes the sound again and yeah, this time it's a snort. "Are you gonna make me, _Tucker_?"

"Hey maybe I will. Could always try to starve you out."

"Ha, okay moron. Starve out a spirit. That'll work."

"You swallowed something right there, I heard it!"

..."I can stop whenever I want."

"You're a dick."

"Hide the rest of the turkey nuggets, would yah? ...I fucking massacred those things earlier."

"This is gonna end sometime soon right? Couple days? Weeks? I need some numbers, man. Don't know how much longer I can deal with Caboose."

"Oh man poor Tucker has to deal with all Church's drama! He's freaking out Caboose, he's eating my food, he's gonna have to just go suck it up and get back to dealing with everybody else's problems because Tucker can't. Fucking. Deal." He takes a minute, stops, tilts his helmet back. "We leaking septic? I've been smelling that for the last few days."

"That's you, moron. Forget days, it's been more like weeks. Not showering for that long kinda does that. ...Or maybe you need an oil change, I don't fucking know!"

"Can you leave? I'm about to start working on the crust, things are gonna get messy. Gonna take some serious finesse on my end."

"I can't believe I sleep next to you. Fucking. Christ. Why?"

"Life's unfair ain't it?"

"Yeah, this feeling sorry for yourself has reached an unreal level a pathetic, even for you. I didn't spend 72 hours scotch-taping wires to reboot your english settings only to have you wasting all my food and hiding out under a goddamn blanket fort. I can barely deal with the Caboose I've got."

"Wow. Okay, here's my take on what's going on here." He sets the piece of crust in his hands over the floor. "I think, I _think_ , you don't like all the shit I have to deal with around here. You think I'm retarded? I know how long it's been, I know Caboose is camped outside that door-" His shove off the floor is too abrupt. He chokes hard on that pizza he's been talking around and all you're thinking is, 'how in the hell is he chewing'... -"I know this shit is gonna clog my arteries. And you know what? I don't care. I don't _fucking_ care."

Silently glowering you try to match the spartan armor's glare, or at least where you're assuming it is that Church stores the majority of his assholery.

..."You're not getting dinner,"

"See if I care."

..."You don't get dinner, or anything in between." You're breathing through your teeth. "And you either shower tonight or you're sleeping outside. I'm not suffering through another night of your funky paranormal B.O. Caboose has already offered to take you out back and hose you down, wires and all."

"Hey fuck you." Dropping ass first, he sprawls back over his cot. "I didn't think a few days by myself was so much to ask for."

"Enough with the 'few days', it's been a few _weeks_ , Church. We gave you your sick days and cushioned you up for the appropriate amount of time. Now you're just being a prick. Are you aiming for the social structure of a mental patient? I've already had to talk Caboose down from stripping you out of armor to change clothes, but if that's the kind of fuckery you've been leaning towards,"

"I'm not going crazy. I wanna be left alone."

..."Okay, I've been nice about this because I highly doubt dudes like you get a whole lot of attention from the ladies, but this is really fuckin' annoying. She was an ex, man. _Ex_. You probably won't get another chick that out of your league willing to bang in this lifetime but I mean come on! There are plenty fish in the sea with robot kinks."

"Oh _God_ , shut up."

"Dude, you keep repeating she meant nothing-"

"She didn't _mean_ anything. I don't want to talk."

"Oh wow. Church doesn't feel like talking. Should I be checking your temperature? Calling in a medic?"

..."Tucker, just go away." He shoves the soggy pizza box off his bed to the floor. "Have your stupid pizza."

"I'm not eating this. You've put your grubby robo fingers all over it."

"Well I'm not hungry anymore."

..."Well then, can I get you some tampons?"

He doesn't even try to dignify that one, clambering onto his knees. In lacklustre silence he drags himself up the cot, fisting the rough felt of his blanket and dragging it to cover his helmet.

"Fucking leave me alone."

* * *

Caboose is watching when you back out of the room, cross legged with his back to the wall and exactly where you left him. The jar is halfway up his forearm. He looks up at you with those big dumb, stupid eyes.

"Tucke _rrr_ ," He stretches, leading into it like he's of goddamn authority. "...Did you re-break Church?"

..."Think he was busted before I got in there."

Caboose slumps his head back against the wall, huffing out his chest piece, the jar clinking against concrete. "Tucker, I miss my sister sometimes." He says, observing his fingers behind the glass. "She means a lot to me. It makes me sad that I can't be with her."

A weak innuendo plays on the tip of your tongue while you're reeling his words back.

Caboose drops his arms heavily beside the wall and sighs, still fond. "Church is missing his mean lady."

A gust of air rushes out from your lungs and you wilt back into the wall. Caboose figures it out first. Fucking team-killing, moron with his arm in a jar Caboose has it pieced together before you.

..."So, what do we do man?"

Caboose frowns for a long pause, inconceivably thoughtful. ..."I need peanut butter."

"Peanut butter?"

He looks at you with those eyebrows raised a little because yes, Tucker, you are the biggest fucking idiot here. Caboose tries another attempt to twist the jar. "I am stuck."

"Right, yeah I noticed."


	3. Chapter 3

_Slapping the material against your leg it makes a flat clap. Magic marker fumes come off the solid slab in dust particles, ending up in your lungs with a fresh air wave of smoke._

 _"This is cardboard."_

 _Rested with his back to a pillar of the Red base, Grif rolls a shoulder. Pulling back the wet end of a home-folded drag he inhales._

 _"What the hell am I suppose to do with fucking cardboard?"_

 _"Fuck if I care," The Red retorts, stick between his teeth._

 _"What if it rains?"_

 _"Dude, if it rains I'll be growin' me some Jujyfruits."_

 _"That's never gonna work."_

 _Grif looks up from his drug induced gaze, eyebrows hiking towards his hairline. "They've got fruit, they were boxed in a factory that contains milk, soya and palm nut products. It could happen."_

 _"Did Donut not even have black marker?"_

 _"Hello, you're_ blue _team." Grif retorts, blowing out through his nose. "I mean, he probably thought he was being clever."_

* * *

So, this was your idea. Your brilliant fucking idea.

"Why isn't there singing?"

Church is standing quiet, cringing under the sunlight like the freaking hermit he's been. He ventured out of bed this morning, made himself coffee before either of you got up then left his cup in the sink. It's kind of a start, and the first glimmer of effort he's made so far.

A crunch down at thigh level draws your attention to Caboose, taking slow but infuriatingly wide chunks out of a three layer toast sandwich. Plain toast sandwich. You had made him leave his orange juice in the base, but the food had come along. Caboose's argument that the 'cave monster' would find and eat it while he was gone had actually become pretty valid. Grif has been acting a lot bolder since that last supply drop.

"Somebody should be singing. And cake! We have no cake! Tucker, this is not a very good party."

"Caboose?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

For a small beat he takes up a rejected frown, then goes shifting onto his knees. He goes down to the grass, crossing his legs and taking a hefty crunch of toast.

"I am not happy about this." Church folds his arms, all deliberate and huffy and loaded with assholery.

Irritation presses your sternum, partially because this is how you know to combat him. Partially because it took three mother fucking hours to drag that stinking carcass down from the cliff.

"Dude, it's fine. Main point is, bodies are in the ground."

"There's an arm sticking up over here."

"Oh, oh, Church! She is saying hello!"

"Okay, I can't deal with him right now." Church lets go in a heavy gust, ripping his arms away from each other only to them hover back to his side. "This is fucking sad as shit, I don't wanna be here."

"Hey, you came out all on your own. Nobody dragged your moon-ass out of the sheets for this."

"Do you even know how something like this works?"

Caboose's arm shoots heavenward. "Oh, oh, I know!" He bounds on the balls of his feet. "Dearly beloved,"

Church stiffens like a rod has been jammed up his ass.

"We are gathered here today, to witness the dirt-covering of Church and Tex, in holy matrimony-"

"Caboose, I'm thinking Church would really love it if you went and brought out those muffins the Reds brought over."

"I can do that!" He chirps, loping off with a spring in his step.

...

"... The Reds made muffins?"

"Donut did. Says there's a special one in there for you."

"Just for me?"

"Yeah."

"Donut." He repeats. A dead chortle follows. "Heh, that's a name."

..."Did you... Want some time to...?"

"Nah. I'm good." Like it's a response he has to give. Church huffs and there's a slight lift in one step as he pivots. "Hey uh, Tucker, wanna give me a ride back to-"

"No."

"Aw come on,"

"NO." You haven't shouted at him in a while but it's one of those things that comes right back. "No way, that shit is heavy as fuck."

"But I'm in mourning. I've gone through so much already. Come on, a little favor for your ol'buddy Church?" You've kept walking and he takes up a jog to catch up. "At least help me paint this body? I can't reach everything by myself!"

"How the hell do you use the bathroom?"

..."That, is a question I will answer in exchange for a piggyback ride."

"Forget it."

His puff is halfhearted and displeased. The weight of his footsteps fall behind as you go on, and that one sinful glance back is enough to make you hesitate. Head down facing the ground Church trudges along, boots scuffing up little bits of dirt as he drags them like a big grumpy kid.

Moody prick of a person...

* * *

 _"You know you're doing a nice thing right?"_

 _Grif looks at you with a pointless expression of appraisal, eyes blearily crossing your face. Like he might see something that could help tip him off. It crosses your mind briefly of how you could be sleeping. This could be any other night in bed, eyes closing to the sound of crinkling and crunching, Church growling, "Put away the fucking Fritos," crawling to the end of his bunk to kick at the next cot over. But Caboose has stopped eating leftovers before bed, and Church no longer tries to sleep._

 _"This, what you're doing, gets you stepping into dangerous territory." Grif goes on, twirling the cigarette until the spark resembles a little orange firefly. "Right now, you're in an okay place. You can still go home, no questions asked, clean conscience. 'I, blue guy, never the sucker for sob stories, went home without consequence because I got some sense talked into me.'"_

 _Your mouth hangs for a moment, stalling for something to punch back and thankfully that's when Donut's sunny soft-served hair pokes out the gap Grif had left under his arm. He ducks under and out, looking smug and propping up the shovel he's got like it's fucking Excalibur._

 _"So, how many holes we doing?"_

 _Grif makes a rough sound and nearly loses grip of his stick. "Jesus, don't say that shit when I've got something in my mouth,"_

 _You take the shovel when Donut offers it. "I'm just trying to get everything back to normal. Nothing nice about it. All strategy here."_

 _Donut's smile becomes all bright and glowy, breaking into a trot after you up towards the cliffs. "This denial thing is so cuuute-"_

 _"Okay, any more of that out of you and I'll be making one of these graves a little bit bigger."_

* * *

..."Hop on."

"Whoa, wha- You're serious?"

"Well maybe before I can change my m-" Because he's Church he takes a running jump, simultaneously choking and knocking the wind out of you in one infuriating lurch. ..."Fucking Christ, I _hate_ you."

"Don't be a baby. I'm like, 200 pounds, tops."

"In what, water weight?"

He shuts up as you start to trudge on, begrudgingly looping your arms around his knees. After a few strides you're adjusting his weight, one hoist scooting him forward, his helmet clunking the back of yours. He kind of goes limp, leaning over you like a puppet, padded fingers drumming away at your shoulder pad.

 _...Fuck it._

"You're okay, right?"

"Huh?"

"All this, emo-shit you've been playing up."

..."Oh. Okay I get it, what? Was this suppose to be like, some sort of 'moment' Tucker? Are we suppose to be all buddy-buddy now, you gonna want me braiding your fucking hair?"

"You're not coming near my hair."

"Couldn't pay me enough."

His fingers go right back into their incessant little rhythm over your shoulders. You shift his weight again, mainly because it still feels like he's slipping, also because what he's doing is fucking annoying. "We good yet, asshole?"

"Huh? Uh yeah we're good, whatever." He chortles like normal, and it's pathetic just how relieving that sound is. "So, who takes first bite of that muffin?"

"...Flip for it."

"Hell no."

* * *

 **And... done x)**

 **Thanks for reading!**


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